


Guten Tag (It Means 'Nice Haircut')

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 17:45:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12869769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: Tim gets a haircut.





	Guten Tag (It Means 'Nice Haircut')

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Guten Tag (это значит: «Классная стрижка»)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6638296) by [timmy_failure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timmy_failure/pseuds/timmy_failure)



–

The afternoon air is unusually crisp for Fall in Gotham, and Tim thinks absently that he should have brought a scarf with him. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket, glad that he at least had the foresight to wear something weather-appropriate. 

He feels… different, a little. Not as different as he thought he would. A little more exposed, a little chillier, but there’s nothing bigger. More earth-shattering. Which makes sense, he guesses, but he had expected something more dramatic. 

He resists the urge to free a hand from his pocket and run it over his new crewcut, to rub his palm over the short, uniform fuzz. He does, though, give in to the urge to glance at his reflection in a store window while he passes, to look at the new, unfamiliar angles of his face. The difference is striking; his jaw and cheekbones look more prominent, his mouth wider. He looks pale, even a little gaunt without the hair softening his features. But Tim feels a corner of his mouth lift in a smile as he steps onto the crosswalk.

He likes it.  

—

Tim’s got his phone face-down on the formica table in front of him, twisting a napkin absently between his fingers. He’s already shredded two, keeps the paper strips in a tidy pile by the salt shaker. He looks up when he hears a familiar tread beside him, half-smiles up at Jason; “I was about to give up on you. Thought you might be too busy.”

Jason slides easily into the booth in front of Tim, with that effortless grace that Tim sometimes envies. Broad-shouldered, leather-jacketed, a few days past needing a shave, and Jason Todd just  _belongs_ , wherever he goes. “Please, Timothy, like I’m gonna miss Burger Tuesday. It’s the highlight of my week.”

And Tim rolls his eyes, pushes a strawberry shake over the table to meet Jason’s palm. Jason takes it, but it’s automatic. His blue-green eyes are narrowed while he looks at Tim; he feels himself colouring a little under the gaze, and Jason continues like he hadn’t paused, “Besides, I thought for a minute that  _you_  had blown off Burger Tuesday; almost didn’t recognise you sittin’ here.”

“What tipped you off,” says Tim, wry, not a question.

Jay slurps at his shake for a minute, tracing his fingers through the condensation on the glass. And he says, “That preppy goddamn jacket.”

“Alfred got me this jacket.”

“Well, then I take it back,” Jason sits back, that lazy half-smile curving his lips. And he says, more sincere, “Looks good, babybird. It suits you.”

And Tim, who had been expecting significantly more sarcasm about his haircut, pauses a moment, stuck on the edge of what to say. He settles on, “Thanks, Jay.”

“You already gettin’ sick of everyone touching it?”

Tim touches his head, self-conscious, says “I only. I cut it yesterday, so no one’s really seen – oh except Conner. Kon. He made me snap him a photo.”

“ _Oh_ , so you aren’t gonna mind, then, when I–” and Jay stands up from his booth seat, leaning across the table (Tim has to pull his coffee and the menus out of danger) to rub both his hands, just this side of too rough, all over Tim’s head. 

“Whatever you’ve gotta do, dude,” Tim says, laugh pulled out of him unwilling while he resists the urge to squirm away.

“It’s like a puppy,” says Jay, when he sits down after a few long moments.  

“You’re such an ass,” Tim tells him, but is probably grinning wide enough to give himself away. And he smooths down his hair, back into some semblance of order while Jason sucks noisily at his straw. After a short silence, Jason props his chin on his palm, looks at Tim consideringly. 

“So why the buzzcut, kiddo? You enlist, or get head lice?”

“See,  _that’s_  more of the reaction I was expecting,” Tim says, rolling his eyes and sipping his now-lukewarm coffee. “I just… I needed a change.”

“New haircut, new chapter?” Jay suggests, eyebrow raised in patented Alfred-levels of sarcasm, but Tim knows there’s something sincere in the question. 

Tim fidgets, fiddles uncomfortably with the edge of the plastic-laminated menus. Says, “Yeah, something like that.”

“Good for you,” says Jason, surprisingly earnest, but he ruins it by kicking Tim hard in the ankle with his steel-toed boot. “So, we ordering, or what? I could eat a whole cow.”

—

It’s a few weeks before Tim finds the time (inclination) to stop by the Manor.   
Alfred’s out and the house is eerily quiet when Tim hangs hangs his coat on the stand by the door, setting his bag down in the entryway.

“Hello?” he calls, and then, because a number of his formative years were spent surrounded by assholes, “My key still works!” 

There’s no answering sound from the house at all; Tim contemplates checking the Cave, but it’s only 3 in the afternoon, and if Bruce  _is_  down there at this time of the day, then Tim definitely wants no part in it. So he heads to the kitchen instead, turning on Alfred’s little wireless radio that sits over the sink. He knows better than to mess with Alfred’s presets, but he wants some background noise, so he flicks around until he finds something he recognises. 

Then, humming along, he digs around in the fridge and finds–  _score_ – left-over pot roast. Tim grabs a spoon from the drawer and scoops up some cold gravy, eating it straight from the container. Then, still humming around his mouthful, he brings out a plate and some bread, that fancy thick-cut stuff that Alfred gets for Bruce’s breakfasts.

After firing off a quick text ( _Is there a truck that sells pot roast sandwiches? because I would live there, tbh_ ), he makes himself a spectacular sandwich, and sits at the counter to eat it. He’ll wait another hour. If there’s no one here by then, he’ll leave Alfred a complimentary note on the pot roast and go.

And he’s just mopping up the dribbled gravy on the plate with his crusts when he hears, called from the direction of the stairs, “Alfred?” 

Tim swallows a colossal mouthful to holler, “Guess again.” Then he jams the rest of his sandwich into his mouth at once, chewing furiously, only belatedly thinking to call out “I’m in the kitchen.” It comes out thickly, stifled by the food, but he thinks it gets the point across. 

And Bruce sounds surprised, though not unhappy, when he says, “Tim.”

Tim hears the stutter of his footsteps as he stops in the doorway, over the sound of the radio. He turns, quizzical, to see Bruce looking at him, eyebrows raised a fraction. 

And Tim says, “The hair? It’s the hair, isn’t it.”

Bruce nods, something easing in his face to make way for a smile, the one that quirks his lips just a little. It’s Tim’s third favourite Bruce-smile, and anything top-five makes him smile back reflexively. 

And he says, deep voice warm, eyes a little bit crinkled, “It’s the hair.”

“Dick got super weird about it,” says Tim, for a lack of something else to say. He hops down to rinse his plate in the sink, turn down the volume on the radio just a touch. “He kept butting his dumb head up against me like a cat.”

Tim startles; Bruce is standing closely behind him. 

The man presses a fingertip gently to the edge of the burn scars on the back of Tim’s neck, tracing it lightly. Tim suppresses a shiver, half-expecting Bruce to speak, though he doesn’t. From the corner of his eye, Tim can see Bruce look him up, and down and up and down again. 

He says, after a silence, “You look older.”

And Tim laughs, uneasy, dislodging Bruce’s hand on accident when he puts his hand on the back of his head in a familiar nervous gesture, and he says, “In a good way?”

Bruce nods once, quite seriously, and says, “In the best way, Tim.”

Tim smiles, big and bright, and says, quiet, “Thanks, B. That means a lot.”

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/132212952437/guten-tag-it-means-nice-haircut)


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